


sweetness on your tongue

by argentconflagration



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), Aziraphale picks up Crowley in the literal sense, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Food Kink, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), public sex technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentconflagration/pseuds/argentconflagration
Summary: Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed his eyes, and there was nothing for it but to press the peach slice forward until it disappeared behind Aziraphale's lips. His thumb brushed Aziraphale's lower lip as he did so, and Aziraphale made a noise— a hum of pleasure that was so soft it was nearly inaudible. Crowley was reduced to staring at the tips of his fingers where they'd touched Aziraphale.Aziraphale's jaw moved as he chewed the peach, and then Crowley saw the column of his throat move as he swallowed, and then he was still. A long, silent moment stretched between them, until he glanced away and returned to the brioche.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 112
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	sweetness on your tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperficwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperficwriter/gifts).



> This was technically written for paperficwriter's birthday, which was not in June, or in May, nor even any time in 2020, actually ... 
> 
> Sorry for the wait!

One beautiful Sunday after the world didn't end, an angel and a demon sat on a grassy, secluded slope in the English countryside, with a bottle of champagne and a picnic basket full to bursting. 

Technically, this picnic had nothing to do with a night in 1967 when Crowley had said, "Can I drop you anywhere?" and Aziraphale had said, “Perhaps one day we could go for a picnic.” Aziraphale hadn’t said anything about that night when he’d proposed the idea, and neither had Crowley mentioned it in the whole course of his preparations. The night loomed large in Crowley’s memory nonetheless. They’d dined at the Ritz after they’d returned from Heaven and Hell, they were picnicking today, and Crowley dared to hope that it was a sign. A sign that Aziraphale felt free, and that what he wanted to do with his new freedom involved Crowley. 

Things were changing already, ever since they’d spent that night— ever since they’d spent the night after the Apocalypse being more intimate than they’d ever been. Giving someone your whole corporation to do with what they wanted was, it turned out, rather a lot, and Crowley had the feeling that both of them had come away from the experience with a shared understanding of something that hadn’t been there before. 

“Champagne, dear?” Aziraphale said brightly. He’d insisted on bringing it, saying, “We’re celebrating, and of course we have to have champagne.” If Crowley tried really hard, he could imagine that Aziraphale had said, “We’re celebrating _us.”_

Crowley nodded, and gave Aziraphale his glass to fill with champagne while he unwrapped a loaf of raspberry brioche. Aziraphale had brought the champagne, but Crowley had prepared everything else about their outing. He was very much looking forward to Aziraphale's reactions. 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in delight, and he made a little anticipatory wiggle as Crowley cut him a slice of bread. “Oh, thank you, love,” he said as Crowley handed it to him, and Crowley’s heart caught on the word. 

Crowley had a hard time believing it all was real. Aziraphale had never been _unappreciative_ of the things Crowley did for him, of course. But their interactions held a new openness, now. There was never any _thank you, love,_ not before a week ago. There were never gestures of gratitude beyond quickly-hidden secret smiles. Crowley felt like he was living in a dream— or possibly drunk on Aziraphale’s open approval. 

When his head was particularly clear, he still sometimes caught moments of ... not of _hesitancy_ exactly— something closer to disbelief— in Aziraphale’s eyes. As if Aziraphale was asking God, or Crowley, or someone, _is this really okay?_ It pulled at Crowley’s heart every time, and made him want to give the angel even more, give him everything he deserved.

If Crowley were an angel, that desire would probably be altruistic, a selfless care for a fellow being. But he was no angel, and he felt utterly selfish about it. Aziraphale being happy, Aziraphale being free, was something he desired, needed, craved. And _he_ wanted to be the source of that happiness, wanted Aziraphale to shower him in looks of adoration and words of praise until Crowley’s heart was glutted with it. 

“You’re so wonderful to me,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley wondered if picnicking could be considered a hazard to his health. Aziraphale’s lips closed around a large bite of the brioche, and his eyes closed in bliss. Not just the bliss of good food, Crowley suspected— the kind of deep contentedness that was starting to settle in his own soul as well. 

Aziraphale sighed happily and reached for the picnic basket again to decide on his next target. “Oh, what ripe peaches!” he said, pulling one out. He prodded the skin with his fingers, just enough to feel the softness of the flesh underneath. 

Crowley nodded. “Give me a little credit, angel, I wouldn’t have stocked us up with unripe fruit.”

He looked up at Aziraphale to see him gazing back so fondly, it made him want to crawl into Aziraphale’s heart and make his home there. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth just slightly, considering his words before he spoke. “It’s a shame it’ll be such a mess to cut ...” and he glanced meaningfully down at the cuffs of his jacket. “I worry I’ll end up getting stains on myself.” 

Crowley waved his hand dismissively. “You don’t need to worry about that.” He pulled out a paring knife from the picnic basket, and started cutting the peach into neat, uniform segments. If he’d wanted, of course, he could have simply willed the peach to be cut, and it would have been, but Aziraphale liked when his food was prepared without miracles, so that’s what Aziraphale was going to get. 

Without thinking, he pulled a slice from the peach and held it up to Aziraphale's mouth. For a moment, he thought he saw surprise flit across Aziraphale's face. But then Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed his eyes, and there was nothing for it but to press the peach slice forward until it disappeared behind Aziraphale's lips. His thumb brushed Aziraphale's lower lip as he did so, and Aziraphale made a noise— a hum of pleasure that was so soft it was nearly inaudible. Crowley was reduced to staring at the tips of his fingers where they'd touched Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale's jaw moved as he chewed the peach, and then Crowley saw the column of his throat move as he swallowed, and then he was still. A long, silent moment stretched between them, until he glanced away and returned to the brioche. 

It was several minutes before either of them spoke. 

“Well, that slice of peach was delightful,” Aziraphale said, the same measured, casual tone pervading his words. “You do spoil me, you know. Would you be so kind as to let me have another?”

Crowley did as he was asked, still in a bit of a stupor, still drunk on the delight shining in Aziraphale's eyes. He pressed his fingers into Aziraphale’s mouth just slightly, just to catch a drop of juice that might have otherwise unacceptably fallen on his clothes. Aziraphale’s mouth closed around his fingers in intense appreciation, chasing every last drop of juice. 

It made something twist inside Crowley, and he had to will himself to believe that the blissful look on Aziraphale’s face was only from the food.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, softly and shyly. His cheeks had turned pink, and Crowley wondered if he was only imagining that Aziraphale missed the closeness of that moment now that it was over. 

“Still hungry?” Crowley said, affecting an air of casualness to smooth over the gravity of the moment. “There’s plenty left in here. Want some petits fours? They’re from that little bakery you like.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, dear, there’s plenty of little bakeries that I like,” Aziraphale said, but trailed off when Crowley produced the small confectionery. There was something intensely gratifying about the way Aziraphale's eyes were drawn to it, a square of cake decorated with an artful drizzle of caramel. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and left his mouth slightly open, and there was a deliberateness to the gesture that made Crowley suspect the intensity of his gaze wasn't entirely for the food. 

Crowley shifted closer, to more easily bring the morsel to Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale's eyes were still glued to the confectionery, and a small puff of hot air escaped his mouth as Crowley drew near. With only the slightest hesitation, Crowley pushed his fingers into Aziraphale's mouth. Aziraphale closed his lips and gave a happy sigh, and Crowley did not pull back. 

Crowley was hit with the sudden clarity that Aziraphale was going to insist on consuming every last drop of caramel on his fingers. Aziraphale’s tongue pressed at his fingers, gently but thoroughly, and Aziraphale made another soft sound, and ... was that a shiver that Crowley saw? 

When Aziraphale finally released his fingers, it was long after there could have possibly been any more caramel left on them, and Aziraphale was quite pink now. Crowley was almost certainly in a similar state. They’d known each other for 6,000 years, and they’d recently inhabited each other’s bodies, but they’d still never done anything like this. He was transfixed. 

He fed Aziraphale another bite, and again Aziraphale lingered, drawing out the moment as long as was conceivably possible without literally stopping time. He avoided Crowley’s eyes, which was just as well, because Crowley was sure he was staring at him like a hungry snake. If snakes could be hungry for angels’ pleasure. 

Aziraphale didn’t even let him withdraw his hand this time. He put his own hand over Crowley’s, and interlaced their fingers when he finally took his mouth off of Crowley’s hand. 

He turned Crowley’s wrist to face his lips, and pressed a firm kiss there, starting to trail up Crowley’s arm ... 

And then he dropped Crowley’s hand and turned away, looking stricken.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t know what came over me,” Aziraphale said. He’d sat up, no longer sprawled across the blanket like one of a pair of lovers on a picnic. (That’s what they were now, right? Lovers?) Instead he was sitting up in that straight-backed posture Crowley knew, all his limbs tucked in to become prim and small and proper. 

And the ache in his eyes was all too familiar as well. It was the one that said _I’m not allowed to want this. I can’t._ Crowley had seen it far more times than he'd have preferred to, but in particular it pulled him back 50 years, to the inside of a car lit by neon street signs, when Aziraphale had said _You go too fast for me_ and meant _I want to, someday, but I can’t, not now, please understand._ Crowley would do anything to never have to see that look again.

His heart lurched, and he closed his fingers around Aziraphale’s. “We’re on our own side, remember?” he said, his voice soft. It was a bit lower, a bit sultrier than he’d meant it, but he supposed there was no helping it, what with Aziraphale having just licked his fingers for a full minute. “We get to have this. _You_ get to have this. Just say the word, I'll do whatever you want.”

The softest temptation, Crowley’s favourite: _You are allowed to want._

Aziraphale met his eyes, then, looking at him with a kind of desperate hope. He brought their interlaced hands to his mouth again and kissed gently, trailing kisses up Crowley’s arm like he’d wanted to, kissing over the fabric of his shirtsleeve up to his shoulder and then his neck where he collapsed forward onto Crowley, as if that feather-light touching had used up all his energy. 

Crowley brought his arms around him, gently resting both hands on his back. “Whatever you want,” he repeated, and he tried not to let it show how much want and desperation was shivering just behind those words. He longed to make Aziraphale happy, and right now longed in some very particular ways that involved petits fours and fingers and mouths on mouths. 

“I love you,” whispered Aziraphale into the skin of his neck. “I love you, and I should very much like to ...” he stopped, and took a breath, and then resolved to keep going. “I would like very much to have knowledge of you,” he finished, and Crowley didn’t have to be able to see his face to know he was red. And he could feel him trembling, breath shaky, not knowing what to do with his hands. 

“I would immensely enjoy giving that to you,” Crowley said, pulling Aziraphale upright to look into his eyes. Aziraphale looked like he was begging, and Crowley wondered how many centuries he would need to teach his angel that he was free to want. 

“Would you like another?” he said, one hand reaching to fetch another petit four out of the picnic basket while the other came up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, the word coming out breathless. When Crowley pushed the chocolate into his mouth, he let himself whimper, and suck on Crowley’s fingers, and in no time at all he was pressing their mouths together. 

Of course Crowley was expecting it, he could hardly have given Aziraphale a more explicit invitation, but he wasn’t _expecting_ it, exactly. Not the actual sensation of his angel finally, _finally_ kissing him, his mouth tasting of peach and chocolate. Their movements were awkward and unpractised and Crowley couldn’t have cared less— they were _kissing,_ and falling back on the blanket together, all tangled up against each other’s bodies. 

Quietly, Crowley made sure that any human who might think of coming over the ridge in the next few hours would feel a sudden inclination to take another route. 

Aziraphale rolled back, spread-eagled against the blanket. His chest heaved and his eyes were dark. “Please, Crowley. I want you.” 

Crowley’s body shook, and he collapsed onto Aziraphale. 

He kissed Aziraphale thoroughly for a good long minute, and then pulled back to rasp, “Say that again. Tell me what you want.” He burned with the need to indulge his angel. 

Aziraphale's face became soft. “I love you, and you’ve been so good to me. Everything about today has been lovely. You don’t even like food. You did it all for me, and I’m so filled with love for you I could burst into flames.” He held Crowley’s face in both of his hands, and Crowley burned. 

“Please make love to me,” Aziraphale said, and there was no force on Earth that could have made Crowley deny him. 

He’d wanted to give Aziraphale so much for so long, and the floodgates had finally been opened. They lay on the blanket for hours, a tiny square of paradise just for them, and Crowley learned so many ways he could touch Aziraphale to make him shiver and cry out blasphemous praise for Crowley’s _blessed_ hands and _blessed_ tongue. He fed Aziraphale until the basket was empty, chocolate strawberries and Camembert cheese and stuffed grape leaves and all manner of things that Aziraphale could lick the last hints of off Crowley’s fingers while Crowley watched helplessly. 

They were still a mess when the sun started to set, neither of them having bothered to vanish away any of the food or fluids they’d made a mess with. 

“When we get home,” Aziraphale said, still making no move to do so, only tucking a strand of hair behind Crowley’s ear, “I think I would like to try sleeping. If it’s with you.”

Crowley pressed his face into Aziraphale’s hair. “Angel, you’re going to be the death of me,” he said, as if that thought hadn’t been foremost in his mind for the past several hours. “Yes, a thousand times yes,” he added quickly, before Aziraphale could get the wrong idea. He pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's forehead as he snapped away all the afternoon's mess.

When they made to head back to the car Crowley was struck with the sudden urge to carry him. Aziraphale stopped him. “Would it be alright with you if I were to carry you instead?”

Crowley couldn’t get the words out to say yes, but it didn’t seem to matter. Aziraphale scooped him up in both arms (and Crowley realized, a little dazedly, that he wasn’t using miraculous power to do so). Crowley tucked his head against Aziraphale’s collar, and maybe it was Aziraphale’s nature as an angel that was making Crowley feel waves upon waves of _You are loved. You are good. You are mine._ Then again, maybe it was something just a bit more human. 


End file.
